When I Stand Before God
by JoshDCarp
Summary: Harry's fifth year ended horribly, and what's coming next won't be great either. He's in a grownup world now, preparing for a grownup war. And whether anyone likes it or not, war is coming, fast and terrible. It will be worse than the first. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

This is a sixth year story, non HBP or DH compliant, but takes up where OotP left off. It may be only a summer story, or it may turn into an entire sixth year story. We'll see.

Disclaimer: I'm really JKR, and I'm a bazillionaire, posting here everything I couldn't fit in the canon books. Or maybe I'm a 19-year old broke college kid from South Dakota, doing this for fun, and making no profit. Take your pick.

Chapter One

A year ago at this time, the sun had been blistering hot, and the neatly trimmed, manicured lawns of Little Whinging had been burned to a crisp, even more so than they were now. The sidewalks, so hot, would have served to fry eggs, had a person so wished it. Of course, the resulting egg might not have been the most hygienic to eat, but that was entirely beside the point.

Kelly Winthrop shook her head to clear the nonsense out of it. How had she gone off on a tangent about eggs on sidewalks? Her mind was so strangely inclined, these days. She shook her short black hair out of her eyes again and shaded her eyes against the sun, high in the sky, halfway through its daily journey. At least it wasn't so hot now, though it wasn't exactly cool either.

"Give me a hand with this, Kelly?"

A tall, wiry man was motioning to her from the back of the truck, one hand on a chest of drawers. Nodding, she hopped down from the high passenger's seat and ambled toward him.

Grunting heavily, the two hefted the oak set down the ramp, across the lawn and up the steps into their new home. The man and his daughter half-carried, half-dragged it into the master bedroom, panting heavily by the time it had reached its' resting place.

"Thanks, Kelly. Time for a cancer stick, I think."

She nodded to her father wearily, watching him pull a pack from his breast pocket and light up. She wished he wouldn't smoke, and if it wasn't for the stress he was under, she would've said something to him about it. But after Mum, did little things like smoking really matter?

Not for the first time today, Kelly sighed and looked up and down the street. She hated this town already. But for the sequential house numbers and the occasional different flowerbed, each house was the same as the last, and the residents of the houses were probably the same story.

Here came one of them now, in fact. A short, fat man, his mustache flaring out as the man breathed with the exertion of crossing the street. Kelly doubted that the man had had this much physical exertion in several decades. He was sweating heavily, great massive sweatstains under each arm, and a V of it under his collar. Kelly regarded him with impassion as he stepped onto the driveway.

The man stopped in front of her father and gave her what he must've thought was a reassuring smile, before extending a fat, pudgy hand to her father, who stood to greet him.

"Name's Vernon Dursley. It's good to meet you," he breathed heavily.

"Ben Winthrop – the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Dursley," her father intoned politely, shaking the older man's hand. "This is my daughter, Kelly."

Vernon nodded at her again, before returning his gaze to her father.

"Moving in, are you?" the man smiled greasily, and Kelly had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. _No, we're just moving in furniture for the hell of it._

Ben nodded, and said nothing more. The two men stared at one another for a moment, and then Vernon stepped back suddenly from the curb.

"Well, I just stopped by to greet the new neighbors and see if you needed anything," he said hastily, backing away from the curb a few more inches, making to turn back towards his house.

"We could use help moving in furniture," Kelly found herself saying, standing up suddenly. The fat man's eyes turned toward her.

"Well, it's been a long day," Vernon said, fidgeting a little, eyeing the many large and heavy things still in the back of the truck. "I'm pretty knackered, as it is. Perhaps tomorrow – "

"You said you wanted to help," Kelly interrupted him, not caring that she was being incredibly rude, or that her father had his hand on her shoulder, silently begging her to behave herself.

A light suddenly turned on in Mr. Dursley's eyes, and he stopped fidgeting.

"Tell you what," Vernon said, "I've just remembered I have some important work to do at the, er, office. But my nephew would be happy to help you; he's not doing anything important at the moment."

Kelly opened her mouth to say something else, but her father's hand clamped down on her shoulder and Ben said graciously, "Thank you, Mr. Dursley. That would be very nice of you." Dursley nodded again, and crossed the street quickly.

"That was rude, Kelly," her father said very quietly, taking another drag on his cigarette. Kelly let her breath out quickly. She hated how calm her father was all the time. She wanted him to yell at her, to be angry when she was rude to innocent neighbors. He looked at her for just a second, and the haunted look in his eyes quelled her anger. Even more than his newfound _calmness, _she hated the defeated look in his eyes. Ever since Mum…

It hurt to think about it. She shook her head again to clear it and stared across the street at the boy who had just exited Number Four. He was dressed in possibly the ugliest assortment of clothes she had ever seen; his shirt looked like it would've been just the right size for his uncle, and the pants he was wearing looked like they would be well suited for a circus clown. His sneakers were nearly destroyed, and he had an ugly scar on his forehead.

Her father snuffed the cigarette out on the pavement and stood to greet the boy. Kelly remained seated. If the two specimens of humans she had met so far on this wretched street were any indication of the rest of them, she had no interest in being polite or friendly to any of them. It was unreasonable, but reasonable was not something she was especially fond of being, particularly in the foul mood she was currently in.

Luckily, this boy apparently had no interest in talking or making meaningless conversation either, and so after stiff introductions the three worked in an awkward silence. Her father, for the sake of propriety, tried to pay the boy – did he say his name was Harry? – but he refused, and also refused Ben Winthrop's invitation to dinner. The truck was soon cleared out, and the boy, continually looking about as if he expected to be attacked at any moment, made his excuses and hurriedly left the two Winthrops standing in their dining room.

Ben frowned as the boy strode purposefully across the street, watching him burst through the door of Number Four like it was the only safe place on Earth.

"Something strange about that boy," he said thoughtfully to his daughter.

"Probably had a Playstation waiting for him," Kelly said derisively, supremely disinterested.

Her father frowned again and replied, "Did you notice he was carrying something under his left arm?"

Kelly fixed him with a penetrating glance. "Dad, he could've hidden a Volkswagen under that tent he was wearing."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a knife," the elder Winthrop said, thought for a moment, shrugged, and settled into his chair. "It's been a long day," he said, smiling at Kelly and cracking a beer.

Kelly gazed out the window across the street, where Vernon Dursley and who she assumed to be his wife and son were getting into the car, presumably going out for dinner. The boy Harry was not with them; if his actions earlier were any indication, he had a fear of leaving the house.

She sighed heavily, and her father looked up at her. "This is going to be a long _summer_," she said sadly.

* * *

Across the street, at roughly the exact same time, Harry Potter was thinking along the same train of thought. Despite being out of school for a mere four days, the Boy-Who-Lived was already wishing for the term to begin. Anything would be better than this miserable room in this wretched house, on this impeccable street in Little Whinging.

Little Whinging was a place that any normal, sane young British couple would dream to live in someday. Property values were up like never before, and there was even talk that a new shopping center might be opening up a mile down the road, which would probably cause real estate in the immediate vicinity to gain even more ground. There was no crime to speak of, other than the occasional random act of vandalism by some pampered teenage brat. Despite the Dursley's derision of Stonewall High, the school had a good educational reputation. But despite all the great things Little Whinging had to offer, Harry would've preferred the depths of hell to this, well, hellhole.

Lies. Violence. Death. They followed him everywhere, and the only thing that Harry could conceive of would be that they would follow him here.

_Well, there would go your perfect crime record,_ Harry thought savagely. He had witnessed firsthand the savagery the Death Eaters were capable of, and had no doubt that they would have any compunctions about destroying the lives of a few more innocent people if it meant getting to him.

Even the nice people that had bought the place across the street. So when his uncle had asked – rather, _told_ – him to go help them move in, it had been only his desire to avoid a fight with his family that had persuaded him to help, careful to remember to take his wand with him. He was by no means afraid of manual labor – in fact, he genuinely liked it, as anything that could take his mind off his late godfather was heartily welcomed by the young wizard. It was just that, in Harry's experience, anyone whom he got close to ended up hurt or dead.

Sirius. Never did an hour go by that that name didn't present itself, an accusing, nagging name. Sirius, falling through the veil, his last words dying on his lips as he was catapulted from the realm of the living into…whatever there was after this life.

Letters from Ron and Hermione were unsurprisingly staunch with admonishments not to blame himself; that he had made a mistake which many a stronger or smarter wizard would've made; that Sirius wouldn't want him to wallow like he was.

Harry didn't agree. He was suffering from what Muggle psychiatrists refer to as survivor's guilt, and no amount of reassuring letters would convince him of his innocence.

Perhaps, the Boy-Who-Lived thought, if he could just get a decent night's sleep his summer would look a little brighter. But even in his dreams he was plagued by grief and nightmares of that fateful trip to the Department of Mysteries that had claimed the closest thing to family he had ever had.

Groaning in frustration and rolling over on the bed, he padded down the stairs, no particular destination in mind. He ambled through the kitchen and dining room, to the door. For a moment he stood, indecisive, and finally threw open the door rather more violently than was necessary and stood on the doorstep, looking out at the lawn listlessly.

What he would give to be in Snape's potion class right now, stewing in the dungeons with the hook-nosed professor giving him the evil eye. Anything would be better than this place. He stood for a few moments more, simply looking at the dying grass. He vaguely wondered how long it would take to count every single blade on the lawn. Perhaps it was a venture worth undertaking. Although, considering the highly suspicious nature of the other residents of Privet Drive, perhaps it would be better if he were to count the blades in the fenced backyard first. Then, if there was time, he might do the front lawn.

"Something wrong, Harry?"

Harry jumped about a foot in the air, startled out of his reverie. He couldn't see anyone, but the voice sounded unmistakably like Remus Lupin. Probably under an invisibility cloak. Then it struck him how ridiculous he must look, standing vacantly for five minutes in an open doorway.

"Harry?" the voice had a modicum of concern now, and the last thing Harry wanted was for Remus to run back to Dumbledore telling him how Harry was losing his marbles.

"I-I'm fine," he croaked.

Silence. Remus wasn't convinced.

"Look, Remus, I'm fine. I just – thought I heard something out here, is all."

Lupin remained quiet for a second, and then:

"Alright, Harry. Just promise me you'll tell me – or someone else, if you don't want to talk to me – if you ever need to talk."

_I'll keep that in mind,_ Harry thought savagely, though he knew Remus was only trying to help. He had lost more than Harry had, after all – Sirius had been his friend for nearly twenty-five years.

"Thanks, Remus," he forced himself to say, and he shut the door slowly.

Standing with his back to the door, the last Potter slowly slid to the floor, holding his head in his hands. And for the first time in nearly seven years, he wept.

Author's Note: I've always loved Harry Potter fanfiction, and I finally decided to try my hand at it. If readers seem to like this, I'll continue it. If not, I'll probably continue anyway, since this is mostly for my own benefit. Cheers!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I wish that I owned the computer I type this on, let alone the Harry Potter series…alas, that belongs to JK Rowling, whom I could never hold a candle to. I'm only borrowing her ideas; please don't sue me. You wouldn't get much if you were to.

Chapter Two

The summer continued to drag on; Harry slowly got used to the humdrum life that he was confined to here. Every day, he would rise early, shower, cook breakfast for the Dursleys (they had not asked him to do this, but Harry was so close to insanity from lack of things to do that he had volunteered), and then lay around the house. After the first three days of this, Petunia had grown tired of him, and suggested that he find something useful to do with himself.

His summer homework was done within the first week of his return to Privet Drive. So it was that Harry found himself watching a crew of workers trimming hedges up and down the street, slowly moving from north to south along one side of the street, and then slowly back up the other direction. He was sprawled out on the lawn, paying no attention to the ants crawling over his toes.

A few months ago one of the more money-conscious residents of Privet Drive had crunched the numbers to find out the difference between commercial hedge-trimming companies doing individual hedges, or group rate discounts for the whole street. As a result, the residents of Privet Drive now hired one company to do all the trimming along the street, and split the cost between them. Harry wished they hadn't done this; trimming the hedges usually took him all day and he would rather have not had this job deprived of him.

A shadow fell over him, and without looking up he could tell who it was. Harry glanced up lazily at Dudley, who was sweating profusely and glaring at him. He said nothing; if Dudley had something to say he would eventually say it.

For a few seconds Dudley just looked at him, and Harry wondered if Big D had forgotten what he came out to say and was just going to leave. No sooner had he gotten his hopes up than –

"Why do you carry that everywhere?" Dudley blurted out, pointing to the wand wedged into Harry's belt.

Harry squinted up at him, and slowly sat up, crossing his legs. "Do you want the long answer, or the short answer?" he said slowly.

Dudley shrugged noncommittally, so Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose fiercely and chose his words carefully. "How much do you know about my world?"

"That you're all freaks?" Dudley ventured, and Harry sighed. But Dudley still seemed to expect an answer, and Harry was loathe to open hostilities so soon in the summer vacation.

"About twenty years ago," Harry started, talking fast because he wanted Dudley to leave, "a wizard named Voldemort started murdering and killing to gain power, and fourteen years ago he was…stopped. Now he's back, and the attacks and murders are coming back too…"

Harry paused. "And he wants me dead more than probably anyone in the world. That, Dudley, is why I carry my wand everywhere."

Dudley looked worried. "Will he come here?"

Harry uncrossed his legs and stood up, brushing the grass off himself. He glanced at Dudley, still waiting. "I don't know, Dudley. I wish I knew what was going on in my world right now."

Although Ron, Hermione and Ginny had sent him more letters in the last week than he had received all of last summer, they were devoid of any real concrete information. He knew that Voldemort's existence was now accepted as fact by most of the wizarding population, and that emergency legislation authorizing the creation of a draft lottery had been pushed through the Wizengamot without much effort last week.

Fudge had immediately signed it into law, but even his backing of this high-profile, well-accepted bill didn't seem to alter the public's perception of him, and it was expected that any day the Wizengamot would rebel and demand a vote of no-confidence.

Harry and Dudley's pseudo-conversation was brought to a halt by Aunt Petunia's screeching voice from the kitchen window. Harry saw from the corner of his eye, the new girl across the street – Kelly, was it? – whip her head around in alarm at the ungodly sound. Harry sprang to his feet quickly and turned away from her; she was now glaring at him as if he had made the noise.

"HARRRRYY!"

Dudley's worried expression disappeared and was replaced by a smirk, and Harry groaned softly. Had Petunia heard him talking to Dudley, and was now going to punish him for attempting to corrupt her Diddykins? Harry grimaced.

He pushed the door open and was greeted by the snarling visage of his aunt brandishing a newspaper and very nearly foaming at the mouth. Although she was waving the paper with short, jerky movements, Harry managed to glimpse the image of the Dark Mark on the front page before she seized him by the collar and dragged him forcefully into the kitchen, throwing the paper down on the table.

"You will tell me everything you know about this. Now."

Harry reached gingerly for the newspaper, tugging it toward him and skimming the article. The picture was, of course, nonmoving.

_Worst Shooting Spree in British History_

_The small town of Lyons, Manchester, was rocked early this morning when two gunmen armed with automatic rifles blocked the doors of the local community center and killed everyone inside – thirty-four people in total. The last shooting spree in British history that even comes close was the shooting spree perpetrated by __Michael Ryan in 1987 which resulted in the deaths of 14 people. __According to the Metropolitan Police Service, which has taken over control of the investigation, the gunmen then went outside, set off some type of homemade fireworks display, and committed suicide. There were no survivors. "This is a horrible tragedy, and our hearts go out to the families of the victims, but it appears there are no suspects left alive." Frank Alesco, mayor of Lyons, said in a written statement. At press time the gunmen had not been identified. The Metropolitan Police Service is in the process of tracing the rifles and other clues, but as of yet no announcements have been made to the public regarding the tragedy. Cont – page 3._

Petunia was staring avidly at him as he sighed and set the paper down, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on. Dudley, apparently not wanting to let it be known that he did not know how to read, left the kitchen.

"Well, this wasn't a shooting spree." Harry said slowly, placing his finger on the protruding snake in the picture. "You've seen this mark before, haven't you, Aunt Petunia?"

She nodded, but didn't elaborate further.

"I haven't heard about this in the Daily Prophet yet," Harry said softly, "but I expect it was Muggle-baiting…Voldemort used to do it in the first war, to keep the Aurors running around covering it up."

Petunia wrung her hands uselessly, looking around her spotless kitchen with an air of despair.

"If he can do it in Lyons…" Petunia spoke, her words trailing off. "Can he come here?"

Harry paused. He seemed to be doing a great deal of careful word-choosing this holiday.

"Professor Dumbledore has placed very powerful protections on this house," he said slowly, "but I think it safe to assume that nowhere is secure as long as Voldemort is on the loose."

Petunia seemed somewhat placated by this. At least, she stopped her fidgeting with the handtowels. "When are you leaving?" she asked savagely.

"As soon as my friends come and get me," Harry returned, with equal venom. "_Although, _Aunt Petunia, I think you are probably safer when I am here than when I am not."

Petunia looked like she had swallowed a grapefruit. "As far as I am concerned, you have brought this trouble on us, when we had given you shelter and sustenance for the last fifteen years – How _exactly _is my family safer now?" she shouted, rising from her seat. Harry rose as well, their noses about three inches apart.

"Having an armed wizard around the house, when you are in danger of being attacked by wizards, can only be a good thing!"

Petunia's mood instantly changed; she glanced desperately at the open window. "Don't shout about your freakishness with the window open," she hissed, much quieter now. Harry sat back down heavily, but shot back to his feet when the doorbell rang. Petunia glared at Harry apprehensively, her look telling him in no uncertain terms that if he had been heard by their visitor, he would regret it.

The doorbell rang again, and Petunia hoisted a cheery smile and drew the door open. It was Kelly.

For the first time Harry actually _noticed_ her. She had short, stringy blonde hair which probably would've been very attractive on her if it had been washed recently. She looked pale and there were bags under her eyes, giving the impression that she hadn't slept in a while. She looked…worried, tense. Harry got the feeling that this was a girl that had let herself go; who didn't have a clue where her life was headed. In that instant Harry felt a surge of solidarity with Kelly.

"Erm," she said eloquently, peering past Petunia's arm at Harry, "is this a good time? I can come back – "

"No, no, dear, what can I do for you?" Petunia rasped. Harry thought he might have cut the tension in the air with a knife.

"Well," she said, looking at Harry peculiarly, "I was just going to ask Harry if he might be able to help Dad and me mount the mirror on my vanity?"

Harry nodded, smiling easily at her and Petunia moved aside to let him pass. Kelly grimaced at Petunia and pulled the door shut behind them. They stepped off the porch and paused to let a car pass.

"So, Kelly," Harry said awkwardly, suddenly realizing how little experience he had talking to girls and wishing desperately for a subject to broach. "Where are you from?"

She glanced at him, tossed her hair and replied, "My dad's a Brit and my mum was American, but I was born in Manchester. You?"

"Er –" Harry said, and crinkled his brow. Where had he been born? He'd never given it much thought. His parents had once lived in a place called Godric's Hollow, he knew, but was that where he had been born? He looked at Kelly, who was watching him with the same peculiar look she had before. "Well, as far as I know, I was born in London," he said, thinking of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. "But I've never really asked my family where I was born. Privet Drive is all I ever remember, though," he finished.

"You don't… like your family very much, do you?" she asked tentatively.

"What was your first clue?" Harry returned, grinning, and she laughed as well. She had, by Harry's judgment, the prettiest smile he had ever seen.

Ben was waiting for them on the step, a cigarette hanging off his lip and a pair of work gloves tucked into his belt.

"Harry, m'boy!" he said, standing up and giving Harry a firm handshake. "Hate to bother you, but I'm not so tough as I used to be."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Winthrop, I wasn't doing anything special anyway," Harry replied as Ben took a Herculean drag on his cigarette, finishing and snuffing it out before exhaling a stream of smoke.

Ben nodded and turned towards the house, motioning for Harry and Kelly to follow him. "Please call me Ben, Harry, Mr. Winthrop was my dad."

"Er, right," Harry replied, grinning at Kelly as she rolled her eyes.

The trio moved towards the steps, where an oak vanity complete with four-foot mirror waited to be hauled up the stairs.

"I think it looks heavier than it is, Harry," Ben said bracingly, and Harry shrugged at him, trying not to think about how easy this task would be with magic.

Kelly gave them moral support as the two men wrestled the – extremely heavy - vanity upstairs and into her bedroom.

"Yeah, that'll work," Kelly guided them to the spot she had chosen and Harry and Ben mounted the mirror.

"Thanks, Harry," said Ben as he tightened the last screw and stood up. "For letting us use you for heavy lifting, that is. Now, how much do I owe you?"

Harry found himself protesting vigorously as Ben forced a five-pound note into his fist, and then protesting more when Ben and Kelly invited him to dinner.

"Seriously, Harry," Kelly said, and Harry noticed she had a look in her eye that hadn't been there earlier, "it'll be fun. Dad's making his famous meatloaf – "

"It's famous for a reason, Harry – "

"Well, I don't know…" Harry trailed off, glancing out the window toward Number Four, where, he knew, an invisible Order member stood guard.

"Of course," Ben said hastily, misinterpreting Harry's look, "If your aunt and uncle expect you for dinner, we won't hold you to it, Harry."

"No, it's not that –" Harry began, and stopped. Kelly was giving him that inquisitive look she had before, with an odd…hopefulness? "I can't pass up famous meatloaf," he finished awkwardly.

"Excellent," Ben said, looking pleased with himself. "Tell you what, Harry, if you want to shower or change or whatever, it won't be ready for another forty-five minutes or so, so what say you come back around, oh, 6:30?"

"Works for me," replied Harry, and turned to leave.

As Harry crossed the street and stepped onto the lawn of Number Four, he realized he hadn't thought of Sirius in some time. And for the first time since his godfather's death, Harry had a reason to soldier on – even if that reason was only a pretty girl and hot meatloaf.

* * *

Hope you liked this recent addition. I plan to update more frequently from now on, especially since I am now on Christmas break. As always, review please!


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